The explanation came without my seeking.  We were seated together one evening, he over his everlasting corrections, and I in some especially herbaceous nook of the Materia Medica, when Tom looked up and said—­

“Jasper, I want your opinion on a passage.  Listen to this.”

Sick of my flowery solitude, I gave him my attention while he read:—­

    “She is no violet to veil and hide
     Before the lusty sun, but as the flower,
     His best-named bride, that leaneth to the light
     And images his look of lordly love—­
     Yet how I wrong her.  She is more a queen
     Than he a king; and whoso looks must kneel
     And worship, conscious of a Sovranty
     Undreamt in nature, save it be the Heaven
     That minist’ring to all is queen of all,
     And wears the proud sun’s self but as a gem
     To grace her girdle, one among the stars. 
     Heaven is Francesca, and Francesca Heaven. 
     Without her, Heaven is dispossessed of Heaven,
     And Earth, discrowned and disinherited,
     Shall beg in black eclipse, until her eyes—­”

“Stay,” I interrupted, “unless I am mistaken her eyes are like the Pleiads, a simile to which I have more than once objected.”

“If you would only listen you would find those lines cut out,” said Tom, pettishly.

“In that case I apologise:  nevertheless, if that is your idea of a Francesca, I confess she seems to me a trifle—­shall we say?—­ massive.”

“Your Claire, I suppose, is stumpy?”

“My Claire,” I replied with dignity, “is neither stumpy nor stupendous.”

“In fact, just the right height.”

“Well, yes, just the right height.”

Tom paid no attention, but went on in full career—­

“I hate your Griseldas, your Jessamys, your Mary Anns; give me Semiramis, Dido, Joan of—­”

“My dear Tom, not all at once, I hope.”

“Bah! you are so taken up with your own choice, that you must needs scoff at anyone who happens to differ.  I tell you, woman should be imperial, majestic; should walk as a queen and talk as a goddess.  You scoff because you have never seen such; you shut your eyes and go about saying, ‘There is no such woman.’  By heaven, Jasper, if you could only see—­”

At this point Tom suddenly pulled up and blushed like any child.

“Go on—­whom shall I see?”

Tom’s blush was beautiful to look upon.

“The Lambert, for instance; I meant—­”

“Who is the Lambert?”

“Do you mean to say you have never heard of Clarissa Lambert, the most glorious actress in London?”

“Never.  Is she acting at the Coliseum?”

“Of course she is.  She takes Francesca.  Oh, Jasper, you should see her, she is divine!”

Here another blush succeeded.

“So,” I said after a pause, “you have taken upon yourself to fall in love with this Clarissa Lambert.”